Broken
by Amberina
Summary: Spike/Wesley. Post-"Grave"/"Tomorrow". Two men in a bar - which one's more broken?


TITLE: Broken  
AUTHOR: Amberina  
E-MAIL: amberflower426@yahoo.com  
RATING: R  
PAIRING: Spike/Wesley  
SPOILERS: "Grave" / "Tomorrow" (hints of the coming seasons)  
SUMMARY: Two men in a bar - which one is more broken?  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never was, never will be (probably.)  
FEEDBACK: Please.  
ARCHIVING: Um? If you want it, you can have it. Just please let me know first.  
  
BROKEN  
By Amberina  
  
A drink was what he needed. A strong one. A really strong one. One that could make everything go away. That would be nice. If everything would just go away. Yeah, he liked that idea. Despair was a tricky little bugger, it was. Truth was, no drink was strong enough to make this go away. It wasn't possible.  
  
But he drank anyway. One after another. Drink upon drink upon drink. He was really becoming an alcoholic. Not that anyone, least of all him, gave any thought to his physical or mental well-being.  
  
He had approached the man first. He was a fellow Brit, with curly light brown hair and a anguished, dazed epression. He had been sitting in the corner of the club, crying into his drink, whimpers escaping his lips every now and again, though they could only be heard during the few seconds before each new song came on.  
  
The music in this place, really it was horrid. Too happy, too peppy by far. Wesley felt like smashing up the DJ's record player, but he couldn't fool himself into thinking he'd actually win in the eventual fight that would come of that. The DJ was a burly man if Wes had ever seen one, made more intimidating by the leather and chains he wore, and he reminded him too much of Angel anyway.  
  
The man who had been crying into his drink, when Wes approached him, looked at him in hope. It was like the man could see something in him that no one else could. Naturally, Wesley had assumed him mad, but he was certainly a dashing bloke, and his body looked tight under the black denim he wore, so he would do.  
  
"I'm a bad man," were the first words out of the man's mouth. He said them not as a pickup line, but instead sincerly like he truly believed he was the scum of the earth.  
  
"Hello, Bad Man," Wesley had said, offering his hand. "I'm Wesley."  
  
The man batted his hand away, and it actually stung. He shook his head, took a sip of his drink. "Call me William."  
  
Wesley took a seat beside him and ordered himself and the man another round. "William. It's a nice name."  
  
The man looked at him in wonder. "The things I've done. You should go away." He turned his head down, and shook it, mouthing words that Wesley couldn't make out.  
  
"Whatever you've done - it doesn't matter."  
  
The man slammed his fist down on the table. "You don't know William, you git. It all matters. Keep telling yourself it doesn't matter. Every bloody thing matters, and that's the problem."  
  
Wesley jumped back, not expecting his outburst. "As that may be - "  
  
William turned away from Wesley, sheilding his face from him. "Don't look at me."  
  
Wesley kept looking anyway, gently placing his hand on the man's arm. It was cold. Cold like death. "You're a vampire," Wesley said, the words coming out of his mouth despite his attempts to keep them in.  
  
"What of it?" William asked, turning back to Wesley, his icy blue eyes cold and almost unseeing. "Just like old Angelus, I am."  
  
That caught Wesley off guard. "You know Angel."  
  
"Angel . . . old Angel . . . got himself a Hyperion, he did. Right in the middle of the end. He used to be mine, or shall I say I was his? I was always someone else's. The trouble came when I tried to make someone mine, soddin' ponce that I am."  
  
Wesley sighed. "You and Angel were involved?"  
  
"For centuries, love."  
  
It began to dawn on Wesley. William. William the Bloody. Spike. "Spike?"  
  
"That isn't me anymore."  
  
The man was confusing Wesley - he didn't know quite what to make of him. "Then who are you now?"  
  
The man, Spike, or William, or whoever the bloody hell he was, looked up at Wesley, and for once he seemed to be truly *there,* completely clear and coherent. "Why don't you tell me, mate?"  
  
Wesley didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say. Then man had been so broken before - he didn't want to risk setting him off again. Finally he just said, maybe because of all the alcohol he had consumed, "Do you want to get out of here?"  
  
Spike shook his head. "I have business to take care of before it takes care of me. It should have a long time ago."  
  
Bloody hell. "Forget it," Wesley said, getting up. As he was walking away, he heard the man call softly.  
  
"Wait."  
  
Wesley turned around.  
  
"Angel - how is he?"  
  
"I wouldn't know," Wesley said, before turning back around again, and making his way out of the bar.  
  
The End 


End file.
